


Rewind

by hatebeat



Category: Metalocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatebeat/pseuds/hatebeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November, 1983 - Tomahawk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewind

Pickles rewound the cassette ten seconds and then jammed play, ears straining against the coccoon of sound to hear the minutia, trying to pick out the fine details. He'd done the same so many times tonight already that each sound was tattooed on his brain, yet for some reason, when his fingers met the frets every note after the first escaped him. He could make up his own- sure, no problem- but it wouldn't be half as good. It wasn't even that hard-- at least, it didn't sound like it should be, and Pickles was pissed as hell that he couldn't get it right. But it was a quiet sort of pissed as he listened to the solo for the billionth time, awarding it his full attention.

He fucked it up once more, rewound the tape ten seconds, started all over again.

Four tries later, the sound of the front door squeaking open then clanking shut again broke his concentration enough that he let the tape keep rolling after the solo, slid his fingers down the frets and played along, like maybe the secret in playing the solo lay in the rest of the song. His amp was turned down low enough that the music didn't disguise noises in the kitchen behind him-- a cupboard opening, a glass settling on the countertop, the hum of the fridge as it sat open for a ponderous moment. Pickles didn't let any of that keep him from playing, though when the song finished, he at least took a minute to brush his hair back from where it had fallen in his eyes. Then he rewound all the way to the beginning. He'd play the whole thing through; he'd _definitely_ figure out the guitar solo this time. 

As he launched back into the song, a weight pressed down over the back of the couch. He could hear steady breathing, could hear the light clink of ice cubes against a glass. Donny said nothing to him but Pickles could feel his eyes on his fingers. It wasn't intrusive, didn't make him nervous like he felt sometimes when Donny came home and brought friends around. Just the presence of those kind of people and Pickles' fingers suddenly forget everything they'd learned. But Donny had watched him since the first time he held a guitar. Donny watching him was natural. When the song changed, he heard the sound of Donny taking a sip of his drink and Pickles got a whiff of whiskey; he tried not to let that distract him, but then there were fingers in his hair, just pushing idly through loose strands, and Pickles had to work way harder to fight off that distraction.

He played on, just pushing right through into the song after that like he knew what he was doing. But the guitar solo proved to be too much for him, was one he hadn't even started trying to imitate yet. He gave it a noble try, but there was no way for his fingers to keep up, so with a sheepish grin he punched the stop button on the tape deck and for a minute, he considered his strings.

"Your hair's gettin' long, kid," Donny said abruptly into the newfound silence- and yeah, Pickles hadn't had it cut, not since before he'd left home- but the words seemed out of place and absurd enough to bring a laugh bubbling out from Pickles' lips.

"You don't like it?" he asked, but if not, Donny could just get his damned fingers right out of it.

"Nah," Donny told him. "It suits you."

Pickles looked back at Donny over his shoulder, but in response, he only swiped Donny's drink. They'd gotten the good stuff this week.


End file.
